


Time at Taddesfield

by Crafty7angel05



Category: Coraline (2009), Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Absent Parents, Anathema is Dog, Excessive mention of St. Beryl’s, F/M, Gen, I couldn’t find it so I wrote it, Idk how many, M/M, Multiple chapters, The sword is given away, ghost children
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-02-19
Updated: 2021-03-06
Packaged: 2021-03-16 04:02:12
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 4,991
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29570022
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Crafty7angel05/pseuds/Crafty7angel05
Summary: (Coraline AU)Warlock’s father brings the family on his business trips sometimes. It’s a part of Warlock’s life. However, he never expects what he’ll find in the first month he spends in St. Beryl Apartments.
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens), Beelzebub/Gabriel (Good Omens), Harriet Dowling/Thaddeus J. Dowling, Hastur & Ligur (Good Omens), Sergeant Shadwell & Madame Tracy (Good Omens), Warlock Dowling & Adam Young, Warlock Dowling & The Them (Good Omens)
Kudos: 9





	1. Chapter 1

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I’m not sure how long this will be yet. I’m not sure if it’s been written already, either. But either way, I’m hoping to write it into existence in a good way :)

Warlock sat slumped in the backseat of the rented car, and peered out of the window. It was cloudy outside, the sky as bleak as Warlock’s mood. They had just arrived at St. Beryl Apartments, a tall brick building possessing a thin, black shingled roof. It was, unfortunately, the only apartment complex close enough to the Taddesfield Airport. 

His father was a severe looking man named Thaddeus Dowling. His father was also the American Ambassador, and recently, his work had taken the Dowlings to Taddesfield. 

The rental car was incredibly unlike the limousines their family usually rode in, with a muddy green exterior similar to an army vehicle and old leathery seats that stunk from use. Warlock didn’t usually get carsick, but the odor from the seats was suffocating and the lack of proper air circulation didn’t help. 

It was the need for fresh air that eventually brought him out of the car. 

His mother and father had already gone inside, presumably talking to the landlady, a redheaded middle-aged woman named Madame Tracy. From eavesdropping on his parents, he’d discovered she had a grandson. He wondered if he would meet him today. It would certainly be less boring living here if he had someone to hang out with. 

Warlock was no stranger to new people, which he supposed sounded oxymoronic to say, but with all the moving back and forth he had to deal with as the son of an ambassador, it continued to hold true throughout his roughly 11 years of life. He rarely kept friends despite being generally alright at making them. Anyone he invited to his birthday parties were children of other political figures, and he suspected it had more to do with his parents’ social standing than the kids actually wanting to be there. He was privately tutored at home rather than going to a school, public or private, with other kids. 

Between his musing, he failed to notice his parents had already returned from speaking with Madame Tracy. 

“Warlock! What do you think you’re doing out of the car?” his mother, Harriet, shouted. She was no-nonsense and shouted often, mostly at his father for overworking and neglecting to be with his family, but not usually at Warlock. This fact was enough to shock him out of his stupor. 

Warlock shrugged, and turned to face his parents. “Just catching some fresh air. The car smelled like poo.”

“Well, we were about to move our suitcases inside. I suppose it’s alright. Could you help me?”

“Sure.”

His father, meanwhile, took the time to take another call. His mother sighed, opened the trunk, and began to unload their luggage. 

—

It didn’t take long to unpack. 

They weren’t staying there for as long as other jobs, only for a few months. It wasn’t as if they had any shortage of clothes, but even his mom didn’t need that many to live on a day to day basis. Besides that, all appliances and basic amenities were provided by the apartment already. 

The apartment itself was modest, with a single bathroom, a small kitchen connecting the living room and the office, and two medium sized bedrooms, one for his parents and one for Warlock. The lighting in the kitchen was a bit dim. Luckily, it wasn’t nearly as dingy as the ones Warlock saw in TV shows and movies. The electricity and water worked and that would be enough. Unluckily, there was limited wifi in the apartment, and his parents ended up the sole users. 

Warlock had gotten bored quickly, both his parents refusing to talk because of work as usual. He expected no different. His mother was in the kitchen, busy planning a garden party, and had commissioned a botanist who lived in the building. Warlock wasn’t sure how she found him, but decided it was better not to question it. His father was in the office, busy video calling the president of the United States, as he tended to do whenever he couldn’t be somewhere in person. 

Thus, with no wifi and no entertainment, Warlock turned to the outdoors. 

The neighborhood surrounding the apartment was old fashioned and suburban. There was enough greenery to give the neighborhood its desperately needed color, yet the sidewalk beneath his feet was barren and cracked, and the road itself contained many potholes. Looking at them made Warlock glad they had made it to St. Beryl’s safely. The iron and stone fencing only enhanced the grave atmosphere of the whole place. There was a stretch of woods that he heard had a well from asking the locals. 

He had just reached the woods, which wasn’t really that far from the apartment complex, when he spotted a small dog. Warlock wasn’t particularly fond of dogs, which came from being scared of the first dog he had been introduced to—his first nanny owned a dog named Rover, an imposing greyhound with a penchant for mice-catching. 

It was sniffing some roadkill on the side of the road. The dog looked to be some breed of terrier, and had mostly white fur with black markings covering the face and across its back. Upon closer inspection, the dog had been sniffing a dead squirrel. 

“Dog! Get back from that!”

Warlock’s head shot up in surprise. The voice had come from a boy around his age. The boy had messy, brownish hair and wore an oversized blue coat. Frankly, he looked less well-kept than the dog, and the sort of kid who got into scrapes often. He had been riding a bike, which he now dropped in favor of commanding his dog. 

Warlock said the first thing that came to mind. “Wait, you named your dog, ‘Dog’?”

The boy seemed to notice Warlock’s existence. “Dog’s a sensible name, I think. Saves a lot of trouble, a name like Dog,” he replied matter-of-factly, “‘Sides, Dog’s its own dog. It’s not _really_ mine.”

“If it’s not yours, why are you telling it to get away from that dead squirrel?”

“It can’t be good for Dog, eatin’ stuff off the street all the time. Dad lets me feed it scraps sometimes. Where’re you from, anyways? You sound diff’rent.”

Warlock rolled his eyes. “America. _My_ dad moves us around for his job. We rented an apartment at St. Beryl’s.”

The boy grinned. “Reckoned it was America with that accent. My friend Wensleydale said there were shops there that sold 39 different flavors of ice cream! That was before he moved away. I haven’t seen ‘im since last year. Come to think of it, all my gang hasn’t been here since last year. It’s been lonely. Is it really true that shops in America have got that many flavors of ice cream?”

Warlock pondered this. “I wouldn’t know. I haven’t tried that many flavors yet. I think.”

The boy nodded sagely. “Probably gets hard coming up with new flavor combinations. My name’s Adam. My gram, she owns St. Beryl Apartments. She doesn’t usually rent to people with kids, either. What’s your name?”

“Warlock.”

“Waldo what?”

“ _Warlock_. Not Waldo. Warlock Dowling.”

“How’d you get saddled with a name like that, anyways?”

“My mom wanted to spite my dad for not being there at my birth. He misses a lot of stuff.” Warlock grumbled. 

They both paused as they heard a faint call in the distance. The words sounded vaguely like _‘Adam Young’_.

Warlock raised an eyebrow. “Isn’t that someone calling you?”

Adam nodded again, and got on his bike. “Reckon so. See you around, War-lock.”

Adam began to pedal towards the woods. Dog turned and stared at Warlock. Warlock stared back. Was it just him, or did Dog have really unsettling eyes?

Dog gave one last lingering stare at the dead squirrel. Then, deciding it wasn’t worth the trouble, Dog darted off after Adam, leaving a very confused Warlock standing on the sidewalk. 

Shrugging it off, Warlock decided he would find the well before going back to St. Beryl’s.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Warlock finds the door.

Dinner was no less boring than first arriving. His parents were more focused on their laptops, and the aforementioned lack of wifi prevented Warlock from doing the same with his tablet. He had a feeling he wouldn’t be using it much in the next few months they were staying here. 

His hands had been itchy since he tossed a stick into the well. He wasn’t sure if it was a wishing well, but gave it a shot anyways. With luck, the itch would go away by tomorrow. Maybe he should’ve wished for his hands to not itch instead of wishing for a friend. 

After dinner, Warlock tried to go to sleep, but was too bothered by his itching hands. He stumbled to the single bathroom in the apartment, and quickly turned on the water. The faucet sputtered, and spewed out a cold stream of orangey-yellow water. Warlock was pretty sure water wasn’t meant to be that color. 

_I guess the water is technically running._

Warlock scraped his hands on a paper towel, which barely helped to relieve the itchiness. He walked to the kitchen, where his mom was still working. His father appeared to have migrated back to the office. 

“Mom, the faucet is broken.” Warlock said, hands behind his back. 

“Mhm.” she hummed noncommittally. 

Warlock tried again. “Orange water comes out of it. And my hands itch.”

His mom’s eyes flicked up for one second. She had heavy eyebags from staying up so late. Warlock wondered if he looked the same. After typing for a little while longer, she glanced up fully at Warlock, who was holding his palms out. 

“I’m busy right now, Warlock. It’s late, you should sleep.”

“My hands itch, though.”

“Go find something in the cabinets. I’m sure we unpacked the medicine.”

Warlock groaned loudly, uncaring of how late it was. Both of his parents were awake anyways, it wasn’t like he was disturbing anyone. He started rummaging in the cabinets, wishing now that he had wished for his parents to pay attention to what he was saying. 

—

By the next morning, Warlock had tried all the rash creams on his hands. One of them must’ve worked, since his hands didn’t bother him as much as last night. 

He dug into the box of personal possessions which, unbeknownst to his mother, had not been unpacked yet. They wouldn’t have provided much to do. There were only so many times you could reread the same comic issues before seeking other forms of entertainment. Aside from that, Warlock thought himself getting too old for things like plastic toys and stamps and baseball. There weren't enough people to play baseball with, anyway. 

It had rained last night. The lighting of the kitchen was dull as it had been yesterday, although it was now bolstered by the sunlight streaming in through the window above the kitchen sink. His mother was still seated at the computer. Perhaps she had stayed there all night, perhaps she had gone to sleep—Warlock couldn’t be sure. 

Warlock considered what he would ask carefully. Well, he _was_ hungry. “What’s for breakfast? I’m gonna go out again today.”

“You can’t go out. It’s muddy, and mud makes a mess.” His mother replied, not looking up. 

“But can I eat something, at least?”

“Cereal is in the cabinets. I know, hon, we’ll go grocery shopping soon. Oh, by the way, some kid left a package for you yesterday.”

She handed Warlock a floppy package wrapped in old newspapers, the sogginess coming from being brought outside while there was rain. The penciled handwriting on the package was still barely legible. Warlock squinted a little and read:

“ _Look at this thing I found in Gram’s trunk. It looks like you. Wicked, isn’t it?  
-Adam_”. 

Warlock unwrapped the package. The package contained a doll, which he looked at quizzically. Gradually, he noticed the doll did share a lot of his physical features. It had dark brown yarn for hair, blue-green button eyes, and felt clothing that mirrored his own. Eerie. 

Either way, he thinks he is too old for dolls as well. 

Warlock made himself a bowl of cereal before soldiering on to visit his father. He opened the door to the office slowly and quietly as he could, in an attempt to not prematurely disturb his father before officially walking in. It was a precarious task, with the door being light and creaking from age. His father was typing away at his laptop, as he had been yesterday at the dinner table. It should be noted that he usually did not type at dinner, but Harriet had been too preoccupied with her own laptop to tell him otherwise. 

“Hey dad.” Warlock said, peeking his head through the doorway. 

No response. More typing sounds. 

“ _Dad_.” Warlock said with more emphasis. 

His father exhaled exasperatedly, and turned to look at him. “Hello, son. And...doll.” He added, seeing what Warlock was holding. 

“Yeah. A kid I met yesterday gave it to me. Can I go outside again to hang out with him?”

“Did your mother say anything?”

“She said mud makes a mess in her squeaky clean house where the faucet doesn’t even work.” Warlock remarked with a great deal of sarcasm. His father either ignored or didn’t pick up on it. 

“Well, son, better do what she says.” 

That was how it usually played out. At least when they weren’t hiring nannies to raise their child for them. His mother tended to be the one setting rules, as she worked from home while his father was away for business, and his father went along with the rules she made. 

Warlock shoved the squeaky door a few more times, just enough to be annoying. 

His father turned again. “Look, son, why don’t you take a look around this place. The landlady told us it was over 150 years old. Might be a chance to learn some history. Run up and down the stairs, I don’t know. I have important appointments to schedule.” He patted Warlock on the shoulder reassuringly, and returned to his laptop. 

Warlock nodded slightly, then realized his father wouldn’t be able to see it. He closed the door behind him, the doll still clutched in his other hand. 

“Might as well start exploring, huh?” He mumbled, to no one in particular. 

—

Warlock started by going down to the lobby of the apartment complex. There was a long, faded green carpet leading to the front door. It had two small bumps in it, which he tried and failed to smooth down. After that, he began to count how many rooms there were on each floor. There were 4 floors in total, he and his parents living on the second, and there were 10 rooms on each floor, aside from the first floor, which had 8. To make room for the entrance, he supposed. There were no elevators, as the landlady had never bothered to get the apartment complex retro-fitted. 

All in all, the apartment complex itself was rather small compared to most, containing 38 total rooms, and was low-rise as well, as it only had 4 floors. Still, from what Warlock saw yesterday, it towered over every other building in the neighborhood. 

There was nothing else about the infrastructure of St. Beryl’s that caught his eye, so he headed back to his own. As he walked into the living room, he noticed a small door besides the fireplace. It was cream-colored and 2 feet tall, and nearly blended into the wall. There was no handle, but there appeared to be a lock. There _had_ to be something cool behind it!

Immediately, he ran to the kitchen. 

“Mom! I found a locked door, it’s in the living room, can you help me open it?”

“I’m really busy right now, hon. Maybe later?” His mother replied. 

“Please?” Warlock clasped his hands together. “I won’t bother you after this.”

His mother knit her eyebrows, then muttered an ‘ _alright_ ’. She got up and followed him to the living room, where Warlock gestured towards the small door. After assessing the door, she went back to the kitchen and started looking through the drawers, until she reached one that held an assortment of old keys. None seemed to belong to them, but the most peculiar was long, matte-black, and had a button-shaped handle. This was the key she took. 

“This one looks funny, doesn’t it?” She held the key up, and Warlock nodded. 

They headed back to the living room. His mother used the key to scrape away the wallpaper at the outline of the door, then did the same to the lock. To both their surprise, the key fit into the lock. The door was opened to reveal...a brick wall. 

“Bricks? Aw, I was hoping for something exciting.” Warlock deflated. He couldn’t even go outside today, and this is what the building decided to give him?

“Well, they must’ve built it when they were dividing the apartments. I’m sorry, I’ve got to get back to work now. Remember what you promised.” His mother headed back to the kitchen to work on what she was before. The key remained in the lock. 

Warlock pulled the key out and held it limply in front of his eyes, checking for any hidden secrets. He found none. Huffing, he decided to head back to his room and reread Peter Rabbit. 

—

Today, his mother made an attempt at dinner conversation, meaning his father would be doing the same. Unfortunately, Warlock was still in a bad mood from earlier, and despite having decent food—they had gone grocery shopping after all—it did nothing to help. 

His mother must’ve nudged him under the table, because soon his father asked, “So, sport. How was looking around the apartment building?”

“Fine.” Warlock's voice was monotone. 

“Anything interesting?”

“Nope.”

No further attempts at conversation were made. His mother looked at him sympathetically. Warlock ignored her, and finished his dinner in silence. He then proceeded to put his dishes in the sink in silence, go upstairs and get ready for bed in silence, and tried to go to bed (in silence). 

He had set the doll next to him on the bed, and it now stared back at him. He sat up and placed it on the bedside table instead, then laid back down. 

“Goodnight, little me.” Warlock said, before yawning and drifting into a dreamless sleep.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A door is opened.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Alright, there was no way I would be able to keep up with adding “z” to the end of every s or th Beelzebub pronounced. Plus it would be annoying to read. So I left them out, with a few references to how they sound (as something like that would be noticeable).

Or so he thought. 

As soon as he settled down comfortably, he was awoken by the noise of squeaking under his bed. Warlock groaned, still half asleep. The squeaking became louder, as if beckoning him. 

_Squeak! Squeak!_

Warlock blinked the sand out of his eyes, and shifted so his head dangled off the edge of the bed. He was met with several mice hanging off of his bed frame. 

Great. The apartment was so old it had a rodent problem. 

“Huh. What’re you guys doing here?” Warlock muttered. 

The mice, upon being discovered, jumped off and scampered towards the door, then paused, waiting for Warlock to follow them. 

Warlock was now wide awake. He tossed his blanket off of him and began to follow the mice, who led him to the living room. He noticed snow globes lining the mantle over the fireplace; this close, they glinted in the moonlight. The small door, unlike before, was open a sliver, and the mice scampered in, one after the other. 

_How are they doing that, when the door’s been blocked off by bricks?_

When he opened the door fully for the second time that day (was it still the same day, or had it passed midnight already?), it no longer revealed the bricks he had originally seen. There was an iridescent tunnel, its walls the texture of crepe paper, extending like an accordion into pitch-black darkness. The tunnel moved in a way that made it seem alive, with a whoosh of wind like air flying down the trachea. The wind blew back Warlock’s shoulder length hair, giving him the impression of a halo around his face. 

“Woah.” He marveled at the passageway that had opened up before him. Then, he did as most children would do when given a chance to explore a new crawl space: he got on all fours and crawled in.

It wasn’t long until he reached another door of the same height. He pushed it open to reveal…

An identical living room.

Well, almost identical. Whereas the walls on the living room he had come from were papered with a dull cream, and had dull photographs hanging in frames, this living room had paintings on walls that were bright blue and patterned. 

There was a light coming from the kitchen, which was weird, because Warlock was sure it was too late for his parents to still be awake. When he got closer, he could hear the sound of someone humming “Bohemian Rhapsody” and smell the makings of a roast chicken dinner. 

“Mmmm...that smells delicious!” He whispered to himself, and then breathed deeply in a way that he might be able to consume the aroma. 

He tiptoed as quietly as he could to the kitchen, which was easy with no shoes on, and saw that his mother was cooking in the kitchen. He had never seen his mother cooking before. Or hum while she was cooking, either. 

“Mom? What are you doing here in the middle of the night?”

The mom-shaped person turned around, and Warlock was shocked by their face. In place of eyes, pale buttons rested in their eye sockets, their bangs were choppier, and their bright red lipsticked smile did nothing to reduce the threatening aura given off by their face. Their pale button-eyes made them look almost ghostlike, and perhaps blind. 

“You’re just in time for supper, dear.” said the person with button eyes who was most definitely not his mother. 

Warlock told them as much. “You’re not my mother. My mother doesn’t have—” He paused and waved his hand vaguely in front of his eyes. 

“Buttons?” They giggled, the sound akin to a fuzzy radio. “Do you like ‘em? I’m your Other Mother, silly. But you can call me Bee. Now, go tell your Other Father that supper’s ready.” For some reason, each ‘s’ or ‘th’ they spoke had a strange buzzy quality. 

_Is that the reason they’re called Bee?_ Warlock wondered. 

Seeing that Warlock was confused, the button-eyed person—Bee—prompted him again. 

“Well? Go on.” Bee leaned in conspiratorially. “He’s in his office.”

Warlock narrowed his eyes in suspicion, but made his way to the office regardless. 

—

The door to the office was...different, somehow. Much like the living room appeared brighter in this other house, the door to the office was a warmer color than it had originally been. 

Soft, lilting music greeted Warlock after he opened the door, and the source of it came as a surprise. 

The man who Bee had called his “Other Father” was, if possible, taller than his own father, though he had the same broad shoulders and dark, graying hair shaped neatly atop his head. However, he was sitting at a piano, and Warlock was sure that his father had never touched a musical instrument of any kind in his life. 

“Dad?” Warlock called experimentally. 

The Other Father turned in his seat, and Warlock saw that he shared the trait of possessing a pair of button eyes, although his happened to be a deep shade of violet. He smiled in the same unsettling manner as Bee, eyes crinkling and grin too wide. Despite that, Warlock thought his own father smiled in much the same way, so it didn’t come as a surprise to him. 

“Hello, Warlock!” said the Other Father. “I’m very glad you’re here, as I’ve just finished composing my newest piece. Would you like to listen in?”

“My dad can’t play piano. He doesn’t like instruments and thinks they aren’t manly.” Warlock deadpanned. “And he’s _never_ called me by name.”

The Other Father laughed ascetically in response. “Well, it’s a good thing I’m not your father, then. Call me Gabriel. It’s a nicer name than Thaddeus, am I right?”

Warlock was baffled by the joke, or that it came out of the mouth of anyone calling himself Warlock’s father. He turned back to the piano, fingers flying across the keys as they had before. There were no words, but Warlock got the message they conveyed nonetheless. The music told a story of happiness and belonging in a world of people that were cold to each other. 

It was undoubtedly the most comforting song Waldock had ever heard. 

Gabriel finished playing, and turned around again. “So? What are your thoughts?”

Warlock’s awestruck face said everything, but he struggled to find the right words. The lyricless song had rendered him speechless. 

“Uhh…” he eventually blurted. “It was good. Really good. And Bee says to tell you that supper’s ready.”

Gabriel stood up and clapped twice— _pretentiously_ , Warlock thought—his face sporting the same grin it had when Warlock first saw him. “Great! I’m starving, aren’t you?”

—

The dinner table was similar to what one would find in the dining hall of a king. There were multiple turntables lining the long rectangular table, each moving on its own, propelled in increments by some unseen gear or motor. The turntables combined made the table laden with a banquet filled with every delicacy imaginable. Or at least, all the foods that Warlock liked to eat. He took a little of everything as they came around. Corn-on-the-cob, sweet rolls, roast chicken, mashed potatoes…and at the offer of gravy, he nodded enthusiastically. 

Warlock was sure his parents wouldn’t be able to afford something like this. 

What was even more peculiar than the lavish meal was that Bee and Gabriel, unlike his own mother and father, were laughing and chatting with one another as they filled their plates. 

_What a weird dream_. 

“So, Warlock,” Bee started, looking at him. “How do you like dinner?”

Warlock stared at them, trying to process that the food tasted exactly like their non-dream counterparts, and were actually making him feel quite full. “It’s tasty, but it’s making me thirsty.”

“Of course!” Bee smiled brightly. The chandelier descended at her words, showing a variety of beverages, a few of which Warlock was sure he had never seen before. “What would you like?”

“I’ll take a Coke?” Warlock held his breath. This was a test; his mom would never allow him to drink soda. 

The chandelier, however, made no pause, and a dispenser filled with bubbling, fizzy caramel liquid was brought in front of Warlock, who watched in amazement as the spout, by itself, filled him a glass of Coke. 

He tasted it. It was syrup sweet, and the carbonation popped on his tongue and in his throat. His face wrinkled. Why did people drink this stuff? It would taste better without the bubbles. 

As he continued sipping the drink, stubbornly not wanting to back down on something he himself had asked for, Bee took away his half-eaten plate and set down what seemed to be a triple tiered chocolate cake. Warlock focused more on it, which made it bloom with candles and flowery pipes of frosting, as well as the self-written “ _Welcome home!_ ”

“Home?” Warlock said skeptically. 

Bee and Gabriel were standing together now, and both nodded. 

“We were waiting for you, Warlock.” Bee smiled widely. 

“For me?” His parents usually paid no attention to Warlock as long as he kept out of trouble and didn’t bother them while they were working. This was far from the level of care he was used to. “I didn’t even know I _had_ an Other Mother.”

“Of course you do! Everyone does.” Bee replied, and Gabriel grinned in agreement. 

“Really?”

“Uh-huh.”

It was all incredibly surreal. He knew it was a dream, but found it harder to believe as he experienced more things. Because Warlock hadn’t remembered ever drinking Coke in the past, or soda of any kind, in fact. Because the food made him feel full. It all felt so _real_. 

“So, Warlock,” Bee started again. Their fingers tapped a rhythm on the table, _tap tap tap_ , as if waiting for something. “I was thinking...would you like to play a game? I thought it would be fun.”

This came off as sudden, besides the fact that his parents didn’t do games. Warlock was even more confused than before. “You mean like hide-and-seek?”

“That sounds wonderful!” Bee’s pronunciation of each “s” was especially noticeable. “We can even play it outside if you want.”

“Outside? But it’s raining. And that means there’s mud.” Warlock squinted. A bolt of lightning outside conveniently punctuated his statement. “I thought you hated mud.”

“Nonsense! We _love_ mud!” Gabriel clapped twice, as he had in the office. 

Bee nodded, walking over. They picked up Warlock’s hands, and Warlock was suddenly drawn to his not-completely-cured itch. “Don’t you know mud is great for poison oak?”

“How did you know what that was? How did you know I—” Warlock asked, trailing off. “I—I should get to bed. It’s late?”

“Of course. You must be tired.” Gabriel walked over as well, and both led Warlock to his bedroom. 

The bedroom was predictably more mystifying than it had been before. Warlock’s toys no longer sat immobile in their box, instead flying and dancing. A battle was being enacted, swords clashing together and guns whistling with invisible shots. His bed was neatly made, and the pillows looked newly fluffed. 

Bee opened what looked to be a makeup compact. It contained a brownish sludge, which Bee dabbed and put on Warlock’s hands. 

“Oh. Mud.” Warlock commented quietly. 

He was feeling tired, which was strange, since this was supposed to be a dream. He felt as if he had stayed awake for longer than usual. He laid down in his bed and turned away from Bee, who tucked him in. The lights turned off, allowing Warlock to fall back asleep.


End file.
